


Memories Like Dust

by misoneism



Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Childhood Friends, Friendship, Gen, Light Angst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:54:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29368860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misoneism/pseuds/misoneism
Summary: Before they were the Legendary Sannin, they were just Tsunade, Jiraiya and Orochimaru, three children, forced together by some unknown twist of fate, struggling to survive in an adult war. From the outside, it is all too easy to ignore that what truly made them legendary is how they bring out the best and worst in each other.But they do not forget.They cannot, no matter how much sake Tsunade drinks, or how many stories Jiraiya creates or how many times Orochimaru questions how much further he has to go before he erases himself completely. So it remains an unspoken agreement of sorts that no matter what, they can never run away.Tsunade tries to hide it. Jiraiya laughs and changes the topic. Orochimaru stares, a smirk breaking before it can fully form.It’s enough to fool the world, but they can never fool each other.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 7





	Memories Like Dust

_Tsunade, Jiraiya, Orochimaru._ Hailed as one of Konoha's greatest three-shinobi teams, revered across the land as the Legendary Sannin.

 _Slug, Toad, Snake._ Tsunade once referred to them as a Three Step Deadlock, keeping each other in check.

 _Past, Present, and Future._ If only they had been facing the same direction, perhaps the history of Konoha could have been rewritten.

* * *

**xXx**

_Tsunade looks to the past._

Tsunade was not one to lose herself in memories. That's what she told herself after yet another hazy night, downing too many cups of burning liquor to count. She had her vices, gambled like there was no tomorrow, but losing herself in memories? No, no, Tsunade would never do such a thing.

She had left the village because she could no longer bear the sight of blood, and what good was a medic who could not heal? This was a journey to find herself again, away from the war-stained fields where kunai outnumbered the flowers. This was a new path, one that would be far away from the crying and the mourning and the sympathetic looks from villagers she hardly knew.

And if she reached for yet another drink because her throat was dry, it certainly was not because a man had walked by with a smile that curved like Dan's, and it definitely was not because she saw a boy running as fast as Nawaki used to when they chased each other down the village streets, and with absolute certainty, it was not because today was a warm autumn day in which the sun set in a magnificent display of gold, warm as a familiar toady grin and gold like the eyes that used to soften when it met hers.

Tsunade had so many memories like those. Memories like dust, coating her mouth. Memories that tasted bitter, the scorched scent as those left alive incinerated faceless corpses in mass graves. Memories that would rise again, like smoke and ashes extending into the sky, and blinding those who hover nearby.

But Tsunade was not lost, not in that way. She was stronger than that, better than that. She was once one of the legendary Sannin.

And if she was opening another bottle because it would make the outlines of Dan's face fuzzy, or took away the pang that gripped her whenever she looked down at the necklace her grandfather had given her, it was really just because the room was too dusty, and she was parched for something that no longer existed.

* * *

**xXx**

_Jiraiya looks to the present._

It was pouring outside for the hundredth day in a row. Jiraiya stepped into the cave that had become his home, shaking his white mane (as Tsunade used to refer to it - he shook his head harder to erase her image from his mind). He was aware that he was dripping, and probably made for a pathetic sight. (Orochimaru would have hated this, hated the cold and the wet. It was probably a good thing that he had left - Jiraiya could just imagine those long-suffering sighs).

Yahiko followed him, and Konan after him, unperturbed by the rain.

"Are you alright, sensei?" that came from Nagato, who was watching Jiraiya, immediately offering up his spot by the fire. Polite kid, that one. The type that fulfilled prophecies.

"I am just dandy," Jiraiya replied with more gusto than he was feeling. It had been a good training session, and the children were developing well in their shinobi skills. He could see their confidence increasing with each new technique acquired. It would not be long before they grew into outstanding shinobi of their own right, particularly Nagato with his eyes.

He ushered them off to wash and dry off first, settling down by the fire where Nagato had sat. It was peaceful here, and from their hideout, Jiraiya could just barely make out the lights of a village rebuilt through the curtain of rain. Things were continuing - life was continuing - in this nearly decimated land.

Suddenly, when Jiraiya looked down, he saw not water trailing in, but blood.

The Sannin, as they were now called, had always been suited as frontline fighters of the war. It was rare for Konoha to produce a team so evenly matched in their ability to obliterate armies at a time, and even more so that such a team could operate for as long as they did away from Konoha, having their own medic-nin and all. For months at a time, their days (as measured in "shinobi days", or the number of hours between fitful periods of sleep) would only end when there was nothing around them but blood. Sometimes it was their own, most often it would pool out from the swathes of enemy bodies that now lay at their feet.

Ultimately, it took just one body to push Tsunade over the edge.

"Sensei? Is it the rain that is bothering you?" Nagato was pulling on a sleeve, his head tilted. There was something in his eyes, curious but respectful, that told Jiraiya the young boy had either understood or had read the many emotions flashing by him.

Jiraiya stood, grinning as his hand found the boy's still-damp head. "Nonsense. A shinobi like myself can hardly be bothered by something as harmless as the rain. No, I'm just reflecting on how fortunate I was to have met you three."

Nagato nodded evenly, directing his gaze outward. "There are a lot of things we cannot alter, but what we can do is train and become stronger so that we can stop the cycle of pain, isn't that so? To bring about real change instead of more fighting."

Jiraiya blinked. The vision of blood had vanished, fading back into water. Right here and right now, Jiraiya had students to teach, a personal mission to accomplish, and a prophecy to fulfill. He knew he was just where he needed to be.

* * *

**xXx**

_Orochimaru looks to the future._

"What are your dreams?" Jiraiya once asked whilst the Sannin sat around their campfire, his tone jovial even as they kept a trained ear and watchful eye for an attack by the Ame shinobi. Unrest had been brewing, demonstrated in early skirmishes that later expanded into the Second Shinobi War.

"Nothing," Orochimaru had responded, much to the shock of his two teammates. He did not _dream._ Dreams spoke of wild aspirations that were so far outside the bounds of reality as to never come true. Dreams spoke of a lack of planning, of tactical decisions on how to move forward. Dreams spoke to conjectures of a future nobody could predict.

But sensing their dissatisfaction (or rather, hearing Jiraiya's vocal outburst), Orochimaru sighed and elaborated. "Fine, I will master all the ninjutsu out there.."

"That's not a dream," Jiraiya continued to protest. "To what end? What's your purpose?"

"There is no purpose."

"How can anybody live without a purpose?"

"Jiraiya," Tsunade interrupted, "Leave him be. If he doesn't want to share, don't push it. To each their own, after all."

Orochimaru had rolled his eyes then. Of course they would not understand. All they could comprehend, all the villagers and shinobi of Konoha could accept, were those restrictive little aspirations like achieving Jonin or becoming Hokage or protecting the village. Ends that were so narrow and meaningless, that existed just to string young shinobi along, when what truly mattered were the means.

He had no time to explain further, however, for minutes later they caught wind of unfamiliar chakra signatures, and were off once more.

**.**

Less than a year later, Orochimaru would see fear in the eyes of his fellow Konoha residents as he glided past them, fresh off the battlefield after witnessing (effecting) the end of the Second War that resulted in the self-inflicted exile of Jiraiya and the desertion of Tsunade, their mutters easily caught by his enhanced hearing.

_I hear Hiruzen passed him up for Hokage._

_Good. I wouldn't want a monster like that to become Hokage._

_He's too ambitious. Everybody is scared of him, even his own sensei._

_Namikaze Minato has surpassed him then._

_I've heard that he is angry, and vengeful. Be careful, we don't know what he will do._

He paused, and they scattered like insects, scuttling away from his eerie eyes. It was unsurprising, these sentiments that rippled through Konoha. Orochimaru had never been oblivious to the thinly veiled fear he instilled in civilians and fellow shinobi alike. And this time, they were right. He was angry…

("Would you become Hokage if sensei asked you to?" Jiraiya once asked. It had been in jest, but when Orochimaru looked up from his latest book, the white-haired shinobi could sense a change in mood.

"Why would I not?" Orochimaru said. "It would allow endless resources for my studies, and an ability to access all of the hidden jutsus of the village."

At this, his teammate crossed his arms, frowning. "Is that all? What about protecting Konoha and all that?"

"I don't believe they would want my protection, Jiraiya."

There was no rebuttal. It was the truth, and Jiraiya knew it all too well.)

So Orochimaru was angry, but not for the reasons the people of Konoha assumed. He had little ambition to prove himself worthy against Namikaze, did not aspire to protect the villagers the way the younger man did. He did not seek acceptance or glory, had no desire for the influence and power. But they would never know, because they had not been there.

They were not there when he first learned of his parents' deaths, executed by ANBU for supposed disloyalty after the First War. They were not there when Nawaki died, when Dan died, when all the best parts of Tsunade died. They were not there when Jiraiya had banished himself to atone for the blood on their hands, hoping that the endless rain of Ame would wash them clean.

Yes, Orochimaru was ambitious. He turned back to his research, playing around with life itself, searching for ways to escape the inevitable. He wanted not the power of the Hokage title; no, that was too intangible and transient, as Hiruzen had proven. He thought of Tsunade, unable to escape the past. He thought of Jiraiya, sacrificing the present.

("If you did become the Hokage, you would have everything you wanted - all the funding and allowances to do whatever research you desire.")

If anybody bothered to ask what Orochimaru wanted, in the darkness of his laboratories with the only people who kept him grounded spread out across time and space, the truth would have been ever so simple: he thought of the future, and he wanted more than _this_. )

* * *

 **Author's Note:** This is perhaps one of the few more recently written drabbles that will be featured. Hope you enjoyed it!

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment with your thoughts!  
> Drabbles were mostly written a long time ago, and unearthed from my drive. My writing style has changed over the years, but I figured I would post this anyways.


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